Gambling addicts turn expert at lying, deceit and broken promises.
To others, perhaps; most of all, to themselves.
I’m fortunate in that my gambling affected no one but myself. No one else was involved. I didn’t have to lie or deny to friends or family members or even employers for that fact. That’s a dimension of addiction that, as an honest person, with which I would’ve really struggled.
However, that didn’t stop me from lying or breaking more promises than I could count.
The promises I made starting in the car in the casino parking lot after a bender, screaming and shouting at myself, calling myself ever bad word, sobbing and yelling “YOU’RE STUPID! STUPID! STUPID! STUPID! STUUUPID! STUUUPID! YOU STUPID! STUPID! STUPID! PERSON! YOU DON’T DESERVE TO LIVE!” with such force and velocity that if harnessed they could propel a rocket to the moon.
I shouted other bad things to myself too. “YOU IDIOT! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS AGAIN?!? YOU FUCKING FUCKING STUPID STUPID STUPID PERSON!”
An unceasing voluminous tirade of vitriolic spitting frothing self-hating punishments directed at my very core and being because ONCE AGAIN I had gambled when I shouldn’t have and thrown away SO much money that I couldn’t afford to throw away. Never mind give to a casino. AND NEVER GET BACK.
And then the promises … the well-intended and wholly sincere promises made in the car on the drive home. “I’ll NEVER do this again. I’ll NEVER go back. I’ll remember this HORRIBLE feeling. The crushing self-hatred. The torrent of tears. The relentless self-torturing punishments! I will remember THIS moment and THIS feeling! It’ll stop me from gambling ever again!! I PROMISE! This is it. It’s done. Over.”
Three days later, or five, or a week, maybe even as long as two weeks, it’s all “forgotten.” I’m driving back to the casino bubbling with the anticipation of a child on Christmas morning.
Promises made. Promises broken.
And the lies to the self. They’re not intended as such. Every screaming pledge to quit gambling borne of rabid self-hatred made in the aftermath of a bender was offered up with pure sincerity and the best intentions. The very best.
Yet I never followed through. Not for very long anyway. In a month, or less, ALL THAT INNER TORTURE and torrent of tears … where did they go? Vanished by amnesia. The amnesia of a gambler who like the drug addict is capable of “forgetting” the nightmare of the addiction in exchange for the thrill, the rush, the excitement, the fun, the pleasure and the escapes from reality of the drug.
Drug = ANY substance or behavior of an addict. Could be shopping, sex, food, drugs, drink, gambling. The effect is the same. It’s the roller-coaster ride of self-medication.
Again, I count myself fortunate that I didn’t have to devise lies or engage in bending or omitting of the truth — that I was gambling, heavily and destructively — to another. I am the sole recipient of those fibs and promises broken.
Likewise, I’m the sole recipient of 1,000,000 verbal lashes of furious and unforgiving vitriol and other variety of self-induced negative thoughts and deeds to punish myself for gambling … for being stupid … and for living.
I am learning my way out of the prison of tortuous and torturing thought and existence.
To a non-gambler, this I would say: You may never understand what drives a gambler into hell. Imploring pleas like “why doesn’t he just stop?” do not work. For a glimpse of how tortuous the inner life is, ask a gambler about those moments when he’s just coming out of the casino … getting into his car … maybe driving. Maybe not. Maybe, like me, sitting there, pounding and pounding the steering wheel, sobbing, shouting profanities at the self and making promises he will find tough, if not impossible, to keep.
The casino makes gambling look like all fun and games. For the gambling addict, it is anything but …
bad bets 